On The Edge
by Jasmine Faith
Summary: He doesn't care anymore. It's too late, he's too full of anger, and no-one can save him. Not now that he's hanging off the edge. But can he be proved wrong? Next life, AkuRoku. Warning: slight violence, mentions of cutting.


Warning: Contains mentions of violence and cutting. Don't read if you're squeamish.

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It's dark, even as the sunrise approaches.

It doesn't matter why it's _broken_, if it can't be _**fixed.**_

A new day. It doesn't matter though. When has it ever? All it will bring is more pain.

Dreams, so many _**dreams**_, of keys and worlds, _fire__,_ running up a skyscraper in a dark city.

He laughs, a broken, hollow sound as he stares at the wall blankly.

It's all so wrong, he wants to go _**down**_the **stupid, fucking** building, not _up._

_Help,_ it says, in a dark, staining red. Small trails of it have run down the wall, but have long dried over and ceased to move.

_What would it be like?_ To fall, and never look back, _**crumple**_ against the ground, tiny ant, **insignificant.**

It doesn't fucking matter anymore. _He's_ not here, maybe _he_ didn't even exist. He used to have hope, but now it's gone, withered away with the events still playing in his head of the day before.

_No Sora,_ things will **never** be the same on your dinky little island. Kairi is suffering trauma, Riku is **manic-**_**fucking**_**-depressive** and you're all too _fucking_ mature for your age.

It was his birthday yesterday. The slivers of red cresting the hills are proof that the _joyous_ day of his birth is long over.

Did _**they**_ even notice he wasn't there? He had _heard _them, heard **singing**, but he had long run away from their drunken voices, mixing up all the words.

What was so special about celebrating one's birth? To him it was just a grim reminder of how many years he had suffered.

**Nobody** would _miss _me, because there's _no one fucking there._

Waiting. Waiting for eighteen fucking years for that useless bastard.

Let's _meet again_, in the next life. I'll be _**waiting.**_

It's too late now. I hate you, he wants to scream, but _he's_ not there to hear it.

Last night he'd run upstairs, _**gift**_ clutched in hand. He couldn't _remember _who the fuck had given it to him, and had spent a long time simply _**staring **_at it.

Cuts, still sore and bleeding, litter his arms. He didn't even do half of them, though some twisted part of him wishes he could say that he did them all. Smirk with pride and claim all the credit for them. They'll heal eventually, but they'll leave scars behind.

**Blood**, so much _blood_, in between harsh blows from the drunk looming above him.

After it was over he had laughed, hysterical. He had painted the _help_ on the wall, giggling the entire time like a little kid with a fucking crayon.

Idly he _watches_. Little trails **fall**, run down the wall like _tears_. Does his _**blood cry?**_ Or is it the wall?

He was worthless, a Nobody. It had felt so good, so nice to finally punish himself. He was scared at first, wouldn't anyone be, but the more he cut the easier it was.

_Pain_, so much **pain**. It doesn't _matter._ He **deserves it,** the little _wretch_. He knows he does. His father says so, so it _**must be true.**_

He watches the blood run down his arms, drip, dripping onto the floor. Pretty red, but it hurts so much. _He _was red, _he_ was fire. He grins as the first light of dawn reflects off the little blade in front of him, red beading at the edge.

**Fire.** Pretty and _red_, but it never **burned **_**him**__,_ no matter how **close** _he _got to the flames._ He _never let it burn him, not even when they fought.

He sighs. He doesn't feel like punishing himself anymore right now. He just feels like sleeping, dead to the world, letting everything pass by, so he does, simply lying down on the floor. It's cold, but oh well. He'd better get used to it.

Dreams again, more _dreams_, this time of _greengreen_ eyes and a **promise**. It doesn't fucking matter anymore, _he's_ _**not coming.**_ He kept his end of the deal, he waited for **eighteen** years, but _he __never turned up._

He wakes, and sighs. It's only been a few hours since he went to sleep. He's not going to wait much longer, but he just feels so drained. He can't be bothered to do anything right now, and vaguely wonders where everyone else is. Fuck them, they don't care. He doesn't bother doing anything to cover up his arms as he gets up to wander through the house.

They _fought,_ they **loved,** they _**lost.**_ We're best friends, _right?_

Everyone is still here from yesterday, and most of them are awake. They don't say anything, just stare at his arms. He can't tell what their expressions are, but he doesn't care. He hasn't cared for a long, long time. Then he walks into the living room, and_ he's_ stood there, hands on hips, back turned on him.

No one would _miss me_. That's not true, I _**would.**_

He can only see _his_ back, but there's no one else it can be. Red, red hair, and if _he_ were to turn around, he would see those green eyes that haunted his dreams. He gasps, and_ he_ hears, turns around, but it's too late, and he's already turned around and started running.

You can't turn your back on the **organization.** They'll _destroy you._

_He's_ following, shouting after him, but he ignores the desperate shouts. They're just part of his imagination, he's sure, out of a desperation born of so many years of waiting. He runs, until his heartbeat has drowned out the cries and he's sure that he's gotten away.

You really _don't_ remember. It's me, _**Ax-.**_

He lets himself fall to his knees. Tears drip down his face, but he doesn't care. It can't be-

_**Axel.**_

It just can't be.

**We **were _best friends_, **right?**

It can't be. But who else could be holding him, wiping away his tears and muttering soothing nothings into his hair? "Axel?"

Roxas, _number_ **XIII.** The _Keyblade's_ Chosen **One**.

_He_ smiles, soft and gentle, though there's sadness in his eyes. "I'm here. Sorry it took me so long."

_See_ you, partner.

"I hate you!" He attacks, lunging at the redhead and trying to hit him, crying harder than before. Axel easily restrains him, holding him close. Roxas tires quickly and allows this boy to hold him; the one who he waited for his whole life, the one who he insisted he hated.

The one who he loves more than anything in this world.

See you, _**Axel.**_

"I love you, Roxas."

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**Author's Note:** Wow. I can't believe I wrote this, and I apologize if it doesn't make sense in any parts. Anyway, I've been working on this for a while, experimenting with writing in a different style. I finished it just today because I'm struggling with Genesis, but I promise that I will never put Genesis on hiatus, nor will I ever take it down. Anyway, this came from two of Tokio Hotel's songs; On The Edge, and a very small part of By Your Side. It's late now, so I'm not going to waste anymore space here.


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